


time is all around

by tonystarxk (romanoff)



Series: snippets [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Tony Stark, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/tonystarxk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony used to love Steve, and Steve used to love Tony, and then they went to war. And then there was only one way to keep Ross from erasing Steve from the earth. And then that's how Tony ended up carry the anti-christ with the man who was supposed to help him a thousand miles away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	time is all around

**Author's Note:**

> i generally sort of don't like mpreg (it's just a too WILD for me) but someone asked for this and i kinda got inspired and then.... kinda stopped, because it was a bit much, even for me.
> 
> but yeah, SERIOUSLY dubious consent. i would call it non-con but i don't like using that tag lightly and there isn't really a precedent for what happens in this fic.

He’s taken to a compound. The soldiers give him clean clothes in the form of an old uniform that is too big and drive him in the back of a van. His eyes keep slipping closed. He doesn’t see where they’ve gone until he’s sitting a lounge, holding a glass of something that is too bright in his dirty hands, nails blackened with earth and hands brown with muck. He gets the impression he’s waiting for someone, and one of the aides tells him to drink.  
  
Tony has had this before, he realises. He’d been prescribed some, way back when, and it’s warm inside his chest, soothes him, sweet and sugary. It makes him want to curl up on the couch and, with his inhibition fleeing along with his higher reasoning capabilities, he does just that, curling his dirty feet on the beautiful red of the cushions, soft beneath his brittle bones.  
  
So he doesn’t hear anyone come in, is dozing lightly when Steve crouches down in front of his couch and rests a hand on his hair. “Tony,” he whispers.  
  
He cracks open a single eye, hazy. He curses his life for the cosmic joke it’s become.  
  
  
Ross had been a bad fuck.  
  
Wooden. He’d liked Tony face down, ass up. He’d grunt as he thrusted, and Tony would roll his eyes and grit his teeth and count down the thankfully short minutes until he was finished.  
  
After, Ross would collapse on top of him. If they’d knotted, he’d wrap his arms around Tony’s middle and bury his nose in the sweaty nape of Tony’s neck, and he’d pass out like that, still thick inside him, until he’d finally soften and Tony could slip away, dress, and leave.  
  
It wasn’t an ideal situation, Tony will admit. Despite what the gossip rags would have you believe, Tony doesn’t do this on the regular. He’s never been  _that_ type of O; once upon a time, Tony prided himself on it, held himself up for it, and when he was younger, other people did too.  
  
Now, he smokes. Smoking is a nasty habit. Fucking the secretary of state is a nasty habit too. Tony’s just full of them, really. Steve used to smoke, used to hate it when Tony smoked, used to complain that his lungs aren’t super-solidered and Steve doesn’t want to have to listen to him choking all night. Tony had told him he would have lost interest way before Tony got old enough to cough through the night, and Steve had taken his hand, earnest, and said no, that he would never get tired of Tony.  
  
Of course, Steve is young. Was young. He didn’t really know what he was talking about, he’d barely seen the world yet. Really, it’s Tony’s fault for taking advantage of someone who’s last serious relationship was a beta in WW2, but really, could you blame him? Steve was soft, and gentle, and he could eat Tony out like a fucking trooper when he wanted to. He was… non-threatening.  
  
At least, he had been.  
  
Tony doesn’t labour under the delusion that Ross appreciates his efforts in bed. He figures Ross is taking him for a power trip; he gets his rocks off knowing that he gets to knot Tony Stark on the regular. Hell, Tony doesn’t even mind, whatever keeps him happy. He gets a bed warmer, and Tony –  
  
Tony gets protection, at least. That’s what he tells himself. And hey, begging, and crawling, and scraping, he doesn’t need to really do that. Ross could make him, but he doesn’t. It’s enough to know that, the first time Ross slowly unzipped his fly and gestured at the floor between his knees, it’s enough to know that it was to stop him from sending in troops to Wakanda.  
  
To kill Steve, Tony should clarify. Tony is, he is prostituting himself on the expectation that Ross will not kill Steve. And so far it’s working.  
  
The street below him is empty apart from one or two staffers on their way to an early start at the office. Ross is snoring in the next room. Tony feels mildly nauseous, so he smokes more. His hand is shaking. It’ll take awhile to get the nicotine smell from his skin.  
  
  
The compound is empty, now. Locked up tight and boarded. Rhodey’s back in New York, and Vision, well –  
  
Vision is with Tony, because he can’t be left alone, and the alternative is to put him into custody. When Tony gets back to his apartment, he’s there, cooking dinner. The way Jarvis would have, when Tony was a kid.  
  
Tony doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like that Vision is trapped in this apartment all day, not when he’s seemingly far too intelligent and has barely lived. Still, it’s hard to have a conversation with him, even if his pasta is nice.  
  
Vision inclines his head, sits at the dinner table. “You’ve returned,” he notes. “It’s been a long time.”  
  
“Three days,” Tony says shortly.  
  
“And marks on your neck?”  
  
Tony shifts his collar a little higher. “Workshop.”  
  
“Of course,” Vision says quietly.  
  
“Any calls?”  
  
“None.”  
  
Tony grunts. “I’m going to bed.”  
  
If Vision is angry, he doesn’t show it. “You should shower,” he advises “your scent…”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Vision inclines his head once more. “I thought I should warn you. It’s not seemly, to go out smelling like that.”  
  
Tony feels self-conscious and sick all at once. “’Night, Vision.”  
  
“Goodnight, Tony.”  
  
  
He lives in Washington now. It bothers him, mildly, that he doesn’t have a home. He used to have a home, Malibu used to be a home. Tony sometimes dreams about bringing Steve there and lying with him on sheets that smell of all Tony’s old scents. It’s the most comforting thing Tony can imagine.  
  
Of course, Steve is gone and so is Malibu. The tower in New York has been turned into luxury flats. The mansion his parents inhabited has been empty for decades. And now, the compound is gone too.  
  
The apartment is luxurious, but it smells like plastic and  _new._ Scentless. Steve doesn’t cling onto the pillows, Tony can barely even catch himself. More disgustingly, he can smell Ross everywhere he turns, as if Ross is his alpha, as if Ross has pride of place in Tony’s nest.  
  
(He wonders if Steve’s found someone new, in Wakanda. If he’s fucking some faceless omega, promising the future to another man.)  
  
  
  
Ross calls late, just after midnight. He sounds drunk. “Come now,” he rasps down the line.  
  
“It’s late.”  
  
“And? You can sleep in. I want you now.”  
  
Tony has to achingly wash himself, throw on a shirt and pants. He’s hoping to slip out, but as usual, Vision is up (because he doesn’t fucking sleep) and he’s watching Maury re-runs. “Going somewhere?” He asks placidly.  
  
“You know I could probably programme sleep into you,” Tony grumbles. “Just, I don’t know, five hours where you shut off every day.”  
  
“I hardly see the point,” Vision says, eyes still trained on the television screen. “You know what number to call if you need help.”  
  
  
Ross is insatiable. “God,” he breathes down Tony’s neck “I can’t get enough of you,” he pants. “What is it, have you put something in my water?”  
  
Yes, Tony wants to say, yes, I am just so desperate for you to fuck me. Oh, please, Mr Secretary of State Sir, oh please fuck me harder, he thinks dully.  
  
Ross twists Tony round, thrusts into him chest to chest, hot breath disgusting in Tony’s face. Ross’s skin is pasty and saggy beneath his uniform. Tony wants to tell him to go slow, he doesn’t want to risk another heart attack.  
  
“Oh Christ,” Ross groans when he comes. He finishes with one more thrust, and then pulls out. He doesn’t lock him, and so when Ross rolls onto his back Tony turns away.  
  
Except Ross has other ideas. He takes Tony’s wrist, pulls him so he’s draped over his chest. Tony feels sick, and it must show on his face, because Ross laughs. “What,” he says “I’m not quite the Captain, Tony, but you could do worse.”  
  
(Tony doubts it.)  
  
“You never want to cuddle,” Ross says, disgustingly simpering. “I like it when O’s want to cuddle. Are you deficient?”  
  
Tony tugs himself way, rubs at his wrist. “I don’t like it,” he says shortly.  
  
“God, what happened to your sense of humour? You used to be funny.”  
  
“Not much to joke about.”  
  
Ross heaves a sigh. “If you’re going to sulk, get me a drink. Bottom shelf of the fridge.”  
  
Tony presses the beer to his sweaty brow and pauses. Rests his head against the freezer, and then goes back to Ross.  
  
“What, you don’t want one?”  
  
“I don’t like beer.”  
  
Ross grins, lecherous. “Good,” he says “it makes you paunchy. I guess you like your cocktails.”  
  
Tony can’t understand why Ross is suddenly so interested in conversation. They’ve never talked about anything other than work before. “I guess,” Tony replies.  
  
Ross slumps and sips at his beer. He yawns and leans back against one hand. “You know, I remember you from the old days. And I do mean, the old days. You must have been, what, eighteen? God, I was still married. You and your father. I remember.”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about that.”  
  
“What, the past?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Because you’re a futurist, right?”  
  
“Because if I think about what I’ve lost I’ll lose my mind,” Tony says bluntly.  
  
Ross sighs. “You know, I’m not the bad guy.”  
  
Tony doesn’t necessarily disagree.  
  
“I’m with you. I was with you on the Accords, Tony. I’m sorry your friends didn’t agree, but… but I can’t change that their criminals.”  
  
“Stop talking.”  
  
“Why do you think you get to give orders?”  
  
Tony swallows air. It’s a good point.  
  
“You’ve never kissed me,” Ross comments. “Do I disgust you?”  
  
Tony doesn’t answer, and really, that’s an answer enough.  
  
Ross keeps him for the night. They don’t fuck; he just wraps his arms around Tony’s middle, smothers him with his doughy flesh.  
  
Tony scrubs at his skin when they’re done.  
  
  
But Ross can’t seem to get enough of him. He calls Tony back to his bed every night for the next four days. Tony is sickened that he can even get it up that often at his age, and horrified that he’s now been forced to keeping a toothbrush in Ross’s bathroom.  
  
One night, while Ross is snuffling at his neck, Tony can feel his throat close up.  _I can’t breathe,_ he thinks,  _I can’t breathe._ He has to force Ross away, slap him, roll out of bed and stick his head out of the window. He takes large, gulping breaths in the frigid night air; it feels like sex against his heated skin.  
  
Ross considers him lazily, eyes glancing over his ass, his toned back, the way his chest is heaving, heavy. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you quite done?”  
  
“I don’t feel well,” Tony manages, voice… woozy. “I’m not feeling great.”  
  
Ross purses his lips. He’s still hard. “Fine,” he says shortly. “Take the spare room.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tony says, genuinely grateful. He considers it a miracle that Ross doesn’t want him in his bed, but then again, who wants sick all over their sheets? At least the spare bed is cool and blissfully scentless. If off-sets the pounding in his head.  
  
Tony dreams of an ocean, cold against the skin, and Steve’s gentle arms pressing him firm against his chest.  
  
  
Tony sleeps through the wake-up call. It’s Ross who shakes him awake, irritated that Tony had over-stayed his welcome. “Get up,” he’d said, tightening his tie “I’m going to work. Help yourself to coffee and clear out.”  
  
Tony had sweated through the night. It becomes obvious when he sits up, leaving a damp patch behind him. “What the hell?” Ross asks “What is that? A heat? Are you – “ Ross looks mildly affronted “is this you… going through the change?”  
  
_No,_ Tony wants to say,  _I’m still shockingly fertile, unfortunately._ But instead he shakes his head. “No,” he croaks “no, no, just – ill, I think. Flu.”  
  
“Well damn,” Ross says “I hope I haven’t caught it. Busy week this week. I trust I can count on your appearance at the gala on Wednesday?”  
  
“Wednesday?” Tony repeats vaguely. “Sure, sure.”  
  
  
  
Tony realises he’s carrying the devil’s spawn.  
  
He has a few choices. There’s no way he can get this thing terminated legally, but he knows he can pay for discretion. It’s early, he thinks, he could probably just take a pill, right? That would work. Or he could… punch himself in the stomach, hard. Get Vision to just sock him one, right in the gut.  
  
Unfortunately, it’s not just Tony who recognises the change. Ross does too, soon enough. Tony’s scent changes to something ripe and hardy and Ross can’t keep his hands off of him. So even the Secretary of State puts two and two together and figures out the change.  
  
“You kept that quiet,” Ross snarls “when were you going to tell me?”  
  
“I didn’t know,” Tony says shortly, and he pours himself some brandy. Ross knocks it from his hand.  
  
“Are you crazy?” He spits “You’re drinking? With my child?”  
  
“In my belly.”  
  
“And what? You say that like it means something.”  
  
“I’m not keeping it,” Tony says quietly. “I can’t raise it.”  
  
Ross seems to be debating internally. “If you carry him to term,” he says “then I won’t expect you to have anything to do with him.”  
  
“I didn’t know you were so desperate for another child.”  
  
“I don’t have any children.”  
  
Tony raises an eyebrow and says nothing. “You’re an old man,” he says dismissively “and I’m not young either. Neither of us are fit to raise a child, and – “ Tony fills up another drink pointedly “you, are Secretary of State, with presidential dreams. You don’t need a love child with Tony Stark. Can you imagine the headlines?”  
  
  
Ross organises the treatment. He fixes it so easily Tony suspects he has experience. A driver picks Tony up from from his apartment and drives him to a clinic three hours out.  
  
It’s over in less than twenty minutes.  
  
After, the driver drops Tony back at the apartment. He helps him to the elevator and leaves. Tony stumbles through the front door, knocks around the lounge until he manages to fall onto the couch.  
  
(No one said it would hurt.)  
  
Vision finds him there, asks where he’s been. Tony can’t say anything, pale, clammy. Vision strips him of his dirty clothes and wraps him in a robe. He holds a basin for Tony to vomit into. He leaves crackers and some toast on the coffee table, with some ice water, and quickly washes Tony’s brow, under his neck, all those places where scent gathers thick and sweaty. Tony knows he must smell of distress. He feels distressed. He feels wrung out, like a damp dishrag.  
  
  
Rhodey calls. “Tony,” he says “you need to tell me what’s going on.”  
  
Tony winces, sits up, pressing the hot water bottle to his abdomen. “Nothing,” he says “nothing, just – you know,” he lowers his voice, like it’s a secret “omega things. Nothing you want to know about.”  
  
“Have you been screwing Ross?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Tony I know you’re still there.”  
  
“It’s none of your business. It’s not your problem.”  
  
“After everything that happened, why him?”  
  
“It’s not like that.”  
  
“Of course not. You’re doing it to help Steve.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“If he’s hurting you it does.”  
  
“He’s not hurting me.”  
  
“Vision said – “  
  
“Vision can’t tell the difference between hurt and – Vision doesn’t understand.”  
  
“Doesn’t understand what?”  
  
Another beat. “I was pregnant.”  
  
And then Rhodey is silent.  
  
Tony continues. “I had it terminated. Ross arranged it. I’m fine. Just feeling a bit. In pain.”  
  
“Do you need me to be there?” Rhodey asks quietly.  
  
Tony almost laughs. “Not emotional pain,” he says “no no, that thing was – the anti-christ, inside me. But it’s fine. It’s over.”  
  
“Why weren’t you using protection?”  
  
“He doesn’t like it. But – hold on, let me finish, but I figured he was so old, and I’m so… I was stupid. I didn’t consider it. It won’t happen again.”  
  
“I bet. Tony I don’t like this, I’m coming down.”  
  
“Don’t,” Tony bites out “don’t, you don’t have to.”  
  
“Pepper is worried.”  
  
“It’s fine. I’m fine. You focus on getting better, okay? How’s the doctor?”  
  
“Good. Great. The prosthesis is perfect, but you know that. I want to talk about you.”  
  
“I’ll come to New York, okay? I’ll come out there. Next week, maybe, when I’m better. Please though, just give me some space for now. Just – “ Tony decides to play the deceitful, underhand manipulative card that is “give me time to mourn.”  
  
Rhodey seems to take it at face value, and wishes him well. Tells him to book tickets, and that he’ll make reservations.  
  
  
“How are you feeling?” Ross asks, watching Tony unbutton his shirt.  
  
“Better.”  
  
“You look… swollen.”  
  
“The doctor said it would go down soon.”  
  
Ross nods. “Good,” he says, and slaps his ass. “Get on the bed.”  
  
Tony licks his lips, chews the inside of his mouth. “I need you – to be gentle.”  
  
“Oh yeah?”  
  
“I’m still tender.”  
  
Ross harrumphs. “Still? It’s been four days!”  
  
“Ross…”  
  
“Are you ever going to call me by my name?”  
  
“Thaddeus in a fucking mouthful.”  
  
“What can I say, my parents didn’t like me.”  
  
  
  
Tony vomits again that morning. And the morning after that. And the morning after that.  
  
And some time after that, he pees on a stick, and it becomes abundantly clear that he is still pregnant.  
  
  
His stomach is starting to swell. Worse, his chest is starting to grow plump. He ignores Ross’s calls and sees a doctor, who confirms that he’s pregnant.  
  
(Tony doesn’t mention the fact that there had been an abortion.)  
  
Maybe it was twins. Maybe it was twins and that’s why he’s still pregnant. The doctor gives him leaflets, beaming, and saying it’s so lovely that he’s made the choice to have a baby before it’s too late, and that he wishes other omegas had Tony’s sense. Tony feels sick. In fact, he vomits in the doctor’s office, and the alpha cheerfully comments that ‘woah, the baby must be a real kicker!’  
  
Tony calls Ross after three days silence. He asks him if he knew. Ross says he didn’t, but that Tony needs to come round so they can discuss it. Tony says he doesn’t trust him. Ross says they have news that Steve has been active in Russia, and if Tony doesn’t come right now Ross will have half the military swoop down on him if necessary.  
  
“Sit down,” Ross orders. His aide brings Tony a coffee, and Ross sits opposite, glaring balefully. “You won’t abort that child,” he says.  
  
“It was twins,” Tony croaks “I don’t know why you’ve changed your mind. The situation hasn’t changed. I can’t – “  
  
“It wasn’t twins. It’s the same child.”  
  
Tony blinks. “Are you crazy? Did you – did you have your doctor mess me about?”  
  
“No. I tried to have the baby aborted. I realise now it won’t die. Thank you, Lisa,” Ross says, accepting a cup of coffee. “I’ve been receiving injections since before Lagos.”  
  
Tony stares. “Excuse me?”  
  
“I’m am an old man. I had a heart attack. We found plans within HYDRA’s files, plans for a new variation of the super soldier serum. Similar to that which Barnes was injected with. The same one your father was carrying the night he died.”  
  
Tony just – keeps staring. “You’re… a super soldier.”  
  
“No. But there has been marked increases in my health. I’m more virile, my bones don’t ache. I have the heart of a twenty-three year old. It’s a miracle serum. I’m stronger too, you might have noticed.”  
  
Tony had chalked it up to good living. Howard had always been strong too, even when he got on. “The baby inside me…” he says slowly with dawning horror “what have you – “  
  
“The baby inside you is not something we have ever seen before,” Ross says calmly. “So no. You will not be aborting the fetus. You will carry him to term, at which point he will be taken off your hands, unless you want to play mommy, which I doubt. That being said, I would want my son to have his mother’s milk,” Ross says casually “there’s a certain comfort I think children get that affects them later on if they don’t have it. So maybe you’ll nurse him until, let’s say six months. And then we will take him off your hands.”  
  
Tony’s fingers are white around the mug. “You didn’t tell me,” he says, sharply. “You didn’t fucking tell me.”  
  
“You seemed more interested in protecting your Captain.”  
  
Tony wants to vomit, now. He feels violated in a thousand ways he never thought was possible. His body… no longer feels right. It’s an ill-fitting suit. He doesn’t want to wear it anymore. “I’ll kill myself,” Tony says bluntly “I will – I will literally kill myself if it stops you from getting what you want.”  
  
Ross rolls his eyes. “You’re being dramatic,” he says “it’s nine months – probably less, if the baby grows at the rate we’re projecting. All you need to do is carry it, birth it, and we’re done. We go our separate ways.”  
  
“I was in love,” Tony says “I was in love with Steve Rogers.”  
  
Ross laughs. “And?”  
  
“And – “ Tony feels woozy. “I can’t have your baby.”  
  
“What do you think Steve Rogers is going to do about it?”  
  
“He’ll – he won’t allow it.”  
  
“And how won’t he allow it when he’s in Wakanda and you’re here?”  
  
“He’ll come if I call.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“He’ll come if – if I – “ Tony finds himself listing to the side, falling to his knees off the couch “call, I need – “ the coffee drops from his hand and splatters against the cream of the carpet.  
  
“Oh no,” Ross says dispassionately. “Lisa, the mother of my child appears to be sick. Please call a doctor.”  
  
That’s what Tony hears. It’s the last thing he hears. Colours swirl down, his vision fizzling to black.  
  
He knows what he needs to do.  
  
  
He wakes up on a hospital bed. The back of his throat is dry. The room is white. There’s a tacky thing stuck to his wrist and he’s wearing a flappy gown that doesn’t quite cover everything at the back.  
  
A nurse notices and asks if he needs anything. Tony very calmly asks for water. He then asks for a lawyer. The nurse says that won’t be necessary.  
  
Tony asks if he is allowed to make calls. He asks what happens when people notice he is missing. “I was supposed to be in New York on Tuesday,” he says “and I can’t leave Vision alone.”  
  
The nurse tells him it’s been handled. She says he really shouldn’t strain himself. A doctor knocks on the door, friendly. He asks how Tony is feeling. He asks if he feels any different. They hold open his legs, clinical, and the doctor examines him.  
  
“You’re coming along well,” he says, snapping his plastic gloves. “Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything. You’re not a prisoner here, you haven’t done anything wrong.”  
  
“I’m just not allowed to leave.”  
  
“If we didn’t think you were a danger to yourself,” the doctor says gently “we would let you leave.”  
  
“A danger to the baby, you mean.”  
  
“Right now it’s the same thing.”  
  
  
They lock his door, to show him how free he is.  
  
  
Tony thinks about Steve a lot. He wonders if he was right. He wonders if Steve would even come to his defence.  
  
Say what you will, Steve had loved him once. He had. He’d just… loved the idea of Barnes more. That screwed up kid, he thought he needed Bucky. Well he didn’t, not like – not like he needed Tony.  
  
(Not like Tony needed him.)  
  
It had hurt when he lied. Tony didn’t think Steve was capable of lying, or withholding truth. It had hurt when they fought, but – but Tony had felt betrayed. “I don’t want to do this,” Steve had begged him. “Don’t make me, Tony. Please, just go home. Please.”  
  
It’s been a long time. Steve hasn’t called him. If he found out that Tony was carrying Ross’s child, of all things… he wouldn’t be happy. Tony is frighteningly possessive to a point that he found himself getting wound up when even Ross came home smelling of another omega. Still, he figures Steve might just have edge when he finds out his –  
  
That his omega is carrying another alpha’s pup.  
  
Tony’s belly hurts. He curls over himself. He wishes the room smelt of something, anything, other than lemons and fear.  
  
  
Ross visits. “For what it’s worth,” he says “this isn’t how I wanted it to go.”  
  
“Will you free me after this?”  
  
“After the boy has been appropriately nursed.”  
  
“I can’t do that.”  
  
“Care for your own son?”  
  
“I will not form a bond with it,” Tony says resolutely, because even now he feels himself curling a protective hand over his belly. He doesn’t want to feel protective of the anti-christ.  
  
“You’ll change your mind when you see him,” Ross says dismissively “everyone does, that’s what my wife said.”  
  
“And what about you?” Tony jeers “Did your life change the first time you held your daughter in your arms?”  
  
“I don’t have a daughter,” Ross says again, smoothly. He flips through a few of Tony’s charts. “Are you milking yet?” He asks casually.  
  
Tony glares. “Yes,” he says shortly.  
  
“Ah,” Ross nods “that’ll be that damn baby. He really is growing fast.”  
  
“If you let me go and I take you to court, what will you do?”  
  
“You won’t take me to court.”  
  
“I’m not some no one, you can’t hold me here.”  
  
“I can, and I will, and you overestimate how much people care about you. You’re not Iron Man. You’re not CEO of jack shit. You haven’t done anything for the past year except mope around, spend your money, and be my live-in fuck toy. Tony, nobody is quite sure what exactly it is you do anymore.”  
  
“People will notice I’m gone.”  
  
“So? Maybe you’ll be in rehab. Or maybe we’ll say we’ve shot you into space, who cares? No one is going to press when someone who is known for dropping off the radar drops off the radar.”  
  
“You are the  _Secretary of State,”_ Tony grits, one last time. “You can’t do this.”  
  
“Is it so difficult?” Ross snaps “You’re apart of something bigger now, Tony. This isn’t about you. There is a life inside you like we have never seen before, and you want to make this about you?”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me I was taking part in your science experiment?”  
  
“Because you weren’t. You were just a good fuck, and you moan like a two-piece whore when you come.” Ross grins, shoves his hands in his pockets.  
  
  
Tony dreams that the baby will rip him apart. He dreams that Steve will come to rescue him too late, and he’ll be lying in a pool of blood.  
  
  
Tony realises if he wants out of here, he needs to leave before he gets so swollen that he can barely walk. He’s also aware that once he leaves, he’ll have the government chasing after him, and if he can’t get rid of the thing inside him, he will still have to birth it. And doing that, alone, with no medical facilities…  
  
Would be worth it, if he could get to Wakanda. He doesn’t know if Steve will take him. He doesn’t know if they want him. But Wakanda supported the Accords no matter what, and even if they don’t want Tony, they couldn’t turn away the thing inside him. Hey, the thing inside him is technically a super-powered individual, right? So maybe they’ll offer it amnesty. And then they can kick Tony out when it’s all done.  
  
(He imagines Steve’s arms around him, pressing kisses to his brow, holding him through the night. He never used to be sentimental, never used to want this, but the urge to be loved is so strong it clouds almost every other judgement.)  
  
  
When the doctor visits next, Tony punches him in the side of the neck, enough that he stumbles. He then cracks his head against the floor. The nurse screams, throws utensils at him, but doesn’t launch after him.  
  
There is security, but it’s fat and balding. Tony realises he’s been kept in a real hospital, in the private wing of a real hospital with real people. He runs down corridors, and people murmur “is that Tony Stark?” although no one tries to stop him.  
  
But there are men with guns at the door. “Enough, Stark,” one of them says gently, like soothing a wounded animal. “Calm down, come with us. We’ll take you back to your room.”  
  
There are people filming, ordinary civilians, filming, and Tony’s standing out in the open with his gown flapping over his back and his belly so obviously swollen. “Fuck you,” Tony snarls “fuck all of you.”  
  
“You’re done, Stark,” the guard says again, reasonably. “C’mon. Let’s get back upstairs and get you safe in bed.”  
  
Tony lurches to the side, and then he’s sprinting again, down a fire exit. The guards are in hot pursuit. But something strange is happening, something bizarre; Tony is running, faster than he’s ever run before. He pushes open the door with a strength unlike anything he’s ever felt. There’s a gate up ahead, and Tony doesn’t even think – he takes leap, hops it, and lands on his bare feet in the alley on the other side.  
  
“Don’t shoot!” The guards scream “Don’t hurt the baby!”  
  
Tony keeps running. He doesn’t stop. He hotwires a car, and then he’s driving, foot on the pedal, as fast as he can. He won’t stop till he reaches home.  
  
  
Home is nowhere. He does the one thing he can think of and hot-pedals it to New Mexico. He makes his way to the Caribbean, slowly, arduously, head dyed blond and wearing baggy jumpers to cover his belly. He begs his way onto a plane by virtue of the fact he’s Tony Stark, and promises the man that when he has money he’ll pay him millions.  
  
The closest he can get on short notice is South Africa. From there, it’s another journey by land to Kenya, which takes a week. He sees news reports with his face plastered on them, with shaky footage of himself running from guards. They have to blur out his ass.  
  
He reaches the Wakandan border. He’s stopped by soldiers. He drops to his knees, exhausted. “I need to see the King,” he says “I need to see T’challa. I need – Steve.”  
  
  
And so.  
  
A convoy. Tony is dressed in old khakis. The heat is sweltering. Flies land on his face, and he doesn’t have the effort to swipe them away.  
  
He’s taken to a compound, deep in a jungle. Two doctors hurry him to a room and check him over. They scan his belly. They give him supplements, and a soft robe.  
  
Then he’s in a lounge. He’s given a drink, pink and frothy. He drinks it, and things get more simple.  
  
Steve is there. He’s crying. Tony is.  
  
He is.  
  
  
Steve washes him. He sits him in a large tub full of warm, soapy water, and scrubs the dirt from his skin. Washes his hair gently, with lingering touches, and shaves his scruffy beard. Tony keeps falling asleep, and Steve tells him to hold on just a while more. It’s everything Tony has dreamed about for so long. Steve will prop him up and his hands will slide over Tony’s shoulders with the soap, and he has to smooth suds from his eyes, and rub lotions into his skin.  
  
He wraps him in a fluffy towel, dries his hair. Steve smells of… oh God, he smells so sad. Tony wants to nuzzle him, to hold him, and the ache in his chest returns full force, so wide and so empty that he can’t bear for a second longer to sit in Steve’s presence, until he’s offered another drink, pink and frothy and again, so warm going down, enough that it sends him down into a deep, deep sleep.  
  
  
He dreams of soapy pink lakes and floating on his back, eyes on the pastel blue sky.  
  
  
Tony doesn’t know how long he sleeps, but he awakes still cossetted with exhaustion and druggy anti-anxiety drinks. The doctor prescribed them, a while back, but they had made it so hard to think, they were the kind of the thing depressed housewives would have taken in the fifties. Now, the colours are so pretty, and they send Tony floating away, keeps the bad things at bay, and fills in the hole in his chest like a concrete mixer with something goopy and viscous.  
  
When he does finally wake, Steve is sitting at the side of the bed with food. Tony can’t remember, have they talked? He lets Steve spoon yoghurt into his mouth, and hopes he’ll get the pink drink. What’s it’s real name again? Coda – something? Amphlaxo – coda – Tony can’t remember. It’s long and fuzzy and boring.  
  
The yoghurt is fresh and sweet in a way it never is in America. It tastes fresh. Tony knows what fresh yoghurt tastes like because he once spent a week in Italy where everything was fresh, the yoghurt and cheese and milk, and the bread was always warm, the sun always on his back, warming the clay beneath his feet –

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i'm just so bad to tony.
> 
> Comments are GREATLY APPRECIATED and if you have any questions or prompts find me on MY NEW writing blog [romanoff](http://tonystaxrk.tumblr.com/)


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